Just an update:
I went to my psychiatry appointment with my mum, and she got very emotional. She said that even now, she hasn't got her boy back. She says it's frustrating because though she knows I've come a long way, I might never "come back completely". It made me think about it. We're all in a total dream world. It's a selfish place to live, inside this wee bubble.
I'd been put on a 3000-calorie diet and miraculously hadn't gained a pound. So she upped my game. 3500 per day, with not a kilojoule less. She explained that if I was to see any bone regeneration IN MY LIFETIME (and bear in mind two years ago I was mere months to live, death-level anorexia, and it left my bones in utter dust, after only a full year of starving myself) I would have to be at least a BMI of 20-22 for 3-5 years, minimum. So I've to get to 9 stones in a MONTH (half a stone to gain). From there, we will set new weight gain goals.
I'm realising I can hang about forever. To-and-fro. "I'm fine". I'm NOT fine, because I'm still gripped by this notion that I'll lose the control, but is the loss of control worse than losing my life before I'm thirty?! I'm not even finished with my twenties yet, and yet my mum said "I feel like my son is a sixty-year old, you don't do anything because you CAN'T, you walk about town hunched over and everyone keeps telling me you look yellow and in pain. Do they really think that HELPS me?!"
Hearing her tell me these things weren't surprising because we don't hide anything from each other. But she wasn't sugar-coating ANYTHING. She really wanted me to know that I was ****Ing about, even if I wasn't meaning to. I was still killing myself even though I was doing it at a less alarming rate.
So even though a week at 3000 calories a day did nothing, I spent yesterday almost completely, downing glass upon glass of milk to reach my 3500. This morning I checked. 117.4lbs. Up 0.4lbs. And my reaction? I didn't freak out. I still felt compelled to do it, to check, but... I didn't feel that galling pang of "darn, I let myself go again". I felt like, "You're doing this so you can see 29. To see 35. To see 48, to see 60. THOSE are the numbers you want to see, so **** vanity, this is what you need to do - all the other numbers don't matter. You want to see those years of your life. So stick to it." I felt no badness, and I still don't.
And though I know it'll be a long time before I can do any exercise - maybe years - beyond just light walking, if I keep doing what I'm doing, at least I know it's a possibility.
We wreck our bodies so rapidly that we forget what we're doing is taking a sledgehammer to a delicate statue to make alterations to it, and before we realise it we've ground them to rubble, and the only option is to take each piece and a tube of superglue and piece it together SO slowly, or leave the wind to blow all the pebbles away. If only we'd chosen to just use a tiny chisel in the first place. But hey, sledgehammer works, right? Fast, effective life destruction, I suppose.
All my love.